


The Trumpeter

by Scotland_Axel (orphan_account)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Trumpeter Sam Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 09:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13455690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Scotland_Axel
Summary: Steve has a favorite street performer -- a beautiful trumpeter who he never has the courage to speak to, but today he does, and the trumpeter steals his heart away.





	The Trumpeter

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how it's possible but I'm getting worse at summaries

Steve stumbles into the living room after toeing his shoes on, both Bucky and Carol turning to look at him.

Carol snorts a laugh and asks, “What’s got you in such a hurry?”

“I overslept.” Steve answers, dabbing cologne onto his neck from the one bottle he and Bucky share.

“It’s five in the afternoon on a Saturday — what’s the rush?” Carol asks, still confused.

“His favorite street performer is out at this time.” Bucky answers for him, and Steve rushes out the door before Carol can ask any more questions.

God, he hopes the man is still playing. Steve curses his lungs when they start to fail him, and slows down before he has a full-on fit and has to use his inhaler. It takes him about ten minutes to walk to his trumpeter's favorite spot.

Steve whirls around the corner just in time to see the man carefully place his trumpet back in its case. Steve curses to himself and timidly walks up to him.

The trumpeter lifts his head, and to Steve’s surprise, smiles up at him brightly.

“Hey, I was wonderin’ where you were. Thought you might’ve gotten tired of me.” The man jokes, as if they’re good friends and this isn’t the first time Steve’s actually _approached_ him. Steve’s come to every “performance” since he stumbled onto the trumpeter, but never has the guts to say anything — not even to introduce himself.

Steve blushes, raising a hand to rub against the nape of his neck. “Uh, yeah, I took a nap and it ran a little long.” He explains sheepishly.

The trumpeter smiles, flashing the gap between his teeth and bringing butterflies to Steve’s stomach.

He says, “This is the first time we’ve spoken, y’know. Why is that?”

Steve scruffs his shoe against the concrete and sighs, “I know, I didn’t know what to say. Or I thought I’d just gush about your music so much you’d think I was kissing your ass.”

The trumpeter laughs, and shakes his head, “Nothing wrong with a little ass kissin’.” He holds out his hand, “I’m Sam Wilson, by the way.”

Steve takes it and introduces himself, “Steve Rogers.”

“Thanks for listenin’ to me play every day, Steve.” Sam says, still holding his hand.

Steve flushes hot, but forces himself to say, “Thanks for playin’. I know I missed your main act, but...could you give me a private show? I’ll pay you back, promise.”

Sam’s smile then is of a whole other variety — devilish and dirty enough for Steve’s ears to burn.

“And just how are you gonna do that?” Sam asks, but he’s already picking his trumpet back up, settling his fingers over the keys.

Steve swallows hard, and slips his now free hand into the pocket of his slacks. “I’ll let you decide.” He breathes, biting his cheek at how daring those words sound out loud.

Lifting the trumpet to his lips Sam says, “You’re playing a dangerous game, Steve.” And then he starts to play.

Steve feels light on his feet as soon as the first high note croons out, and the simple press of Sam’s fingers doesn’t seem to match the lively jazz that starts to fill the street around them. All the notes come together beautifully, leaving Steve hopelessly breathless and smiling as he always is when he listens to Sam.

When Sam’s playing stops it feels like a spell is lifted, and Steve’s body is once again his own. He sighs, and smiles down at Sam who’s grinning right back at him.

“That was beautiful, as always.” Steve compliments, watching Sam put his trumpet away for a second time.

Sam snaps the case shut and grabs his hat full of money before rising to his feet. Steve swallows and looks up at him.

“You decided how I’m to pay you back yet?” He asks.

Sam smirks at him and replies, “I think a simple date will do.”

Steve’s heart flips in his chest at that, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering up a storm. “How about tonight? Eight o’clock.” Steve offers.

Sam says, “We’ll meet back here.”

“Where will you take me?”

“My favorite jazz club, how does that sound?” Sam asks, looking down at Steve with soft brown eyes.

Steve flushes at what he sees there, and it takes him several slow moments to recognize it as desire — something he doesn’t see much of.

“That sounds perfect.” He finally answers, “I can’t wait.”

Sam smiles at him, and takes Steve’s hand again, pressing a soft kiss against the back of it, and making Steve shudder with want.

“Until eight, Steve.” He whispers, and drops Steve’s hand.

It feels cold and empty without Sam cradling it, and Steve holds it to his chest as he watches the man walk away. And that’s how his heart was stolen by a trumpeter.


End file.
